The Inquisitor's Path
by phyreblade
Summary: Maikhel Lavellan never thought he would be a hero to the humans or anyone else, never asked to walk this path. His entire world is consumed by the breach, and he fights ahead. (M)Lavellan with a Dorian romance arc; other characters will be considered along the way. Rated M, definitely.


**All characters and story included here are property of Bioware and Electronic Arts; I make no claim to the original telling. Thank you to the writers at Bioware, for providing such an exceptional story. You guys rock!**

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"We found one … _alive_!"

Cullen felt a thrill of amazement tighten his chest, his ribs. Until his breastplate actually felt too small around his frame. He straightened slowly, rising up from his kneeling position to shoot a long look towards the dim glow of green that he could see against the low, cracked and dark wall at the far side of the smoking, ruined yard. More soldiers were rushing towards the broken remnants of stone there, and shouts of surprise and shock rang out from them.

Cullen inhaled sharply, so that the smoke and ash hanging against the hot air of the shattered temple singed the back of his throat all over again. That, and the smell offended him even more. The stench of smoking flesh that permeated the entire ground, every rock and bit of dust there. So that it etched its way into your clothes, your own skin and just stayed there.

Cullen imagined he would be washing everything on him, scrub every inch of his body practically bloody raw and for days afterwards, too, just to try at forgetting the terrible smell.

But then. Wasn't it an insult, to forget them? To only leave them in this place, alone and forgotten? Cullen looked back at the scorched, huddled form nearby his booted feet, gazed at the last bits of some person. He couldn't even discern whether it was a man or a woman once, whether it was once an oldster or a younger person, nothing. He knew only that the person was so scared and hurt in those last moments he lived, that he fell down onto his knees and screamed loudly from the pain, with a head thrown back against the ravaging flames and scorching heat of the explosion.

Cullen turned away abruptly, determined. Because at last! Finally! There was some sign, that whatever happened here, whatever terror was visited on the Conclave – it didn't defeat them completely! Amazingly, there was the smallest breath of life among so much dead. And maybe even some answers.

He moved quickly, brushing past the soldiers who were gathering in a circle around the survivor. The men were all looking down towards the ground, and Cullen heard low groans coming from whoever was lying there. Gasping cries kept pealing out from among the gathering soldiers, rough cries of shock and surprise. And then … anger? Cullen finally reached the innermost circle of soldiers, just in time to see one of them rear back a single booted foot to kick at the injured figure lying there against the ground.

Cullen heard a loud male cry of pain when the kick connected, saw the slender frame of the man curl sideways in horrible distress. The thudding sound of the blow against his soft side was vivid and terrible, and Cullen thought he heard the distinct sound of several ribs cracking.

Cullen yanked against the shoulder of one soldier in front of him, yelping an angry cry, "Stop it! Move from my way, move! Now!"

The soldiers fell back then, enough that Cullen could finally see the crumpled frame of an elf lying there. He rasped a startled inhalation of breath, coughing lightly as the hot air invaded his lungs again. Then Cullen slowly moved closer, watched as the prone, hurting elf slowly rolled over until he lay in a sorry fetal position, cradling his arm against his chest and whimpering dazedly as he blinked up towards Cullen's looming frame.

"It's an _elf_ , commander …"

Cullen jerked angrily, staring towards the soldier who barked that absurd observation. As if Cullen couldn't tell what the man lying there on the ground _was_ , with his pointed ears lying long against both sides of his dark-haired head and his pale lavender eyes framed by such vividly dark Dalish tattoos on his forehead and down along his nose. What were the marks called, again? Cullen vaguely remembered that the Dalish had names for the tattoos they marked themselves with, put some kind of sacred meaning to the things. Something about their strange gods, if he recalled properly.

But none of that really mattered right then. Except that he had little tolerance for the ready ignorance of so many more ordinary people, that they would break and ruin someone for something as silly as the shape of his blasted ears.

Or maybe it was the friendship he once enjoyed with a young Surana at Kinloch Hold. She used her magic to fight against Uldred when the Circle fell, throwing herself in front of the Templars even as the demons streamed at them down the long halls. Surana showed him that elves were just as much children of the Maker, as any human from some fine family in Denerim. Just as brave, just as noble …

Now Cullen snarled around at the pressing men and soldiers, pushing them backwards as he stepped closer to the Dalish, "I can see he's an elf! So there's no real value had from breaking him into pieces, considering he's smaller than the lot of you. What do you expect, a medal for being so much stronger? And he's injured, to boot! Maker's breath!"

The soldier leaned backwards, scowling back down at the elf through a thick line of sooty grime covering his face. Cullen vaguely wondered if there was that much dirty sweat and soot covering his own face, actually. He tried not to consider how much of the ash covering all of them was all that was left of the dead around them. Thinking that so many people were reduced to nothing but mere smoky dust was hard and terrible, so that his mind skittered away from the sheer possibility.

The soldier continued to glare at the pained, gasping elf, grousing in a low, rough voice, "Commander, you didn't even see his hand! It's the same damn color as the hole in the sky!" Cullen's eyebrows shot up as he wrenched his head down to look closer at the Dalish.

The elf moaned a pained sound, still clutching his hand into his upper chest as he rocked backwards against the ground, "Dain'yel … where?" The soldiers muttered darkly among themselves, wondering at the word. But Cullen recognized the name suddenly.

Leliana described them, said there were Dalish elves approaching the Conclave. She personally observed them, the pair of them. Even though she wasn't able to describe what clan group they hailed from, mind you. The Divine's Nightingale only mentioned that the two elves were camped nearby one of the small streams that extended off from the lake near Haven.

"They were arguing, actually," Leliana seemed amused more than anything. She shrugged lightly as she described it. "The one was guarding the younger man. It seems they are interested in seeing what comes of our … how did they put it? Ah yes, our 'clumsy human fumblings with magic'. I thought they were adorable, actually."

Two of them, with one clinging hard to an elven breastplate and refusing to set it down. The younger one was sighing at the time, both of them kneeling down alongside one of the ice-covered streams nearby as they gathered up their things from what looked like a brief campsite. Leliana caught sight of them after one of her people mentioned their location, and she easily ducked back behind a small stand of trees to stay only close enough to observe the elves, to hear them arguing.

Leliana chuckled slowly as she told Cullen, "I'm not sure I would consider it a true argument. They never even raised their voices, anyway. It was all very … elven, mind you. Just the calmest sort of assured disagreement." But the younger one with the pretty eyes was very obviously the leader of the pair, his manner far more decisive and methodical. Leliana was adamant he was a Keeper of theirs – "The Dalish mages are their leaders; they call them Keepers. But this one was so blasted young, barely a stripling lad. Maybe twenty seasons past his birth – maybe!"

When Leliana saw them, the elf mage was insisting that his warrior companion dress in more human-familiar clothing, was saying, "Dain'yel, the humans will remain uncertain of us as it is. It's only better to set them at ease just enough, that we soothe them with some small semblance of whatever they deem normal and commonplace."

The other elf tapped slender fingers against the edges of his Dalish breastplate, "So we dress in their heavy clothes and cover our feet the way they do, and you imagine they'll suddenly become our friends?"

"Imagine it? Well, now that you mention it … Wouldn't that be a funny story to tell when we're both old and wizened, that the humans were so silly we fooled them that simply?" And he laughed lightly, his head softly canted sideways as he looked over at his friend. Dain'yel snorted back at him.

"Only you would gain such pleasure from this sorry gambit, Maikhel. We're doomed, you know. We'll go along this path and find ourselves at the mercy of the human mages and their Chantry's warriors both. This is insane!" Then he tossed the breastplate down onto the ground, digging his toes against the dark, wet earth underfoot. How he managed to keep his toes from freezing solidly into the frozen soil of the wintry ground was befuddling to Leliana as she watched them.

But then the younger one – he was called Maikhel – he smiled and held up a thick traveling mantle, cut in patterns common to the Free Marches, "Just wear the human clothes, Dain'yel. Whatever cloth covers our bodies, we're still Dalish. It only makes our progress easier, even if it isn't ever going to be easy."

Dain'yel hesitated. But he eventually snatched the article out of Maikhel's outstretched hand, snarling, "You're lucky that I like you so much, Maikhel! It's your eyes, you know. Only those gorgeous eyes might have convinced me to follow you all the way here, to freeze myself hard against the ground and hide from angry humans! Why are they _all_ so angry, mind you …?"

Maikhel only shrugged slowly, "They're afraid, rather. It's heavy around them, has been ever since the humans battled each other at Kirkwall." Dain'yel grunted sourly as he pulled the Marcher clothes over his slender frame, secured a belt around his small waist. But he kept his weapons close at hand the entire while, his guardianship of the younger elf very, very obvious.

"That's what the Keeper told me, yes. Why Deshanna is so worried about these human troubles confuses me, still." He looked over at Maikhel, saw him skirt his gaze away from him and narrowed his brown eyes at the younger elf, "Maikhel? Do you know why Deshanna is so worried … Wait. She isn't, though." Dain'yel settled back on the heels of his boots, sighing loudly.

"Don't do that, Dain'yel. Deshanna _is_ worried, we both are!" Maikhel's nostrils flared as he affirmed, "She may not have wanted me to travel here. But we have to know for certain the humans will fix their fights over magic, and she did agree." Of course the Dalish would be as concerned with the happenings at the Conclave, as anyone else. Although this pair was unusual, Leliana said. Her observations of the Dalish during the Blight was of people strongly certain of their own independence and determined security. They would be adverse to one of their apprentice mages traveling so far apart from his clan.

She insisted to Cullen, "They're only spying, like little boys watching a game they don't really understand and aren't sure they want to play at. They're harmless." Only now it was one of those harmless "boys" that lay on the ground at Cullen's feet. He hunkered down onto a knee, reaching out to touch the elf. But the angry soldier yelped a warning and then the elf himself reared back.

"No! I Touched it. It … hurts!" And the young elf raised up his shaking hand, so that the brilliant emerald glow of magic glimmering in the center of his palm was apparent. Cullen stiffened, vaguely hearing the startled gasps from the soldiers gathered around them both.

The elf's palm was vivid, brilliant green, shining as brightly as the magic that showed from the breech in the center of the sky overhead. The glow from his hand shimmered against the air, highlighted all their faces in the same green radiance. Cullen imagined that his own amber-colored eyes sparked a luminous emerald as he kneeled there in front of the elf, felt his breath catch in his chest as he marveled over the burning length of that slender limb. He murmured questioningly, "What did you touch? Why did you do it?"

The elf shook, trembled against the ground. His light-colored eyes shimmered with confusion; he looked dazed at Cullen with dazed eyes that appeared darkly purple in the emerald haze from the breech and his own hand, "Dain'yel …" Cullen gripped the elf's shoulders, yanked him closer as he demanded, "Your friend isn't here! What did you _do_?"

Maikhel gasped as he looked up at the sky over Cullen's head. He could see the breach, even if he could not have said what it was. He muttered, "Have to help her! The lady!" But his gaze was already dimming, his confusion turning to dark unawareness. He slowly sank back onto the ground, his consciousness wavering into real oblivion. Cullen gaped at young elf for a long moment, until the man's attacker finally muttered harshly from behind him.

"Leave 'im, commander. He's the one that done this, caused this. It's elf magic, is what it is!"

But then another soldier exhaled like a burst of air from a child's toy ball, exclaiming, "I'm telling you! There was a lady, I saw 'er! Behind the elf, just before he popped straight from the Fade itself! It was Andraste, sending him to save us from the demons!" More startled mutters filled the air, as Cullen looked up sharply. The soldier lifted his chin adamantly, "I'll not do ill against Andraste herself, commander. I'll even carry the elf back down to Haven, if'n you want me to."

Cullen dropped his gaze to the elf's glowing, green hand one more time. He watched as the elf whimpered a pained sound even through his bewildered unconsciousness, writhed against the burnt, scorched ground as if the pain was beyond appreciation. It amazed Cullen all over again, that the elf had even managed something as simple as surviving. But he only shook his golden-dark head, sighing, "He's my own responsibility. I am still Templar enough, I can best manage his misuse of magic than any of you. If that's what's happened, here."

And the soldiers – the entire lot of them actually muttered grateful sounds as their new Commander gathered the elf up into his own arms, held onto him as they began the trek back down from the Temple.

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 _ **This chapter was the result of a prompt from the Cullenites fanfiction writers. The original prompt required writers focus on particular emotions and describe some aspect of the Dragon Age story (and particularly Cullen) that was pertinent to that specific assigned emotion. My own emotion was "Amazement" and I truly hope that this brief consideration of the soldiers' finding of the Inquisitor in the immediacy of the Conclave's destruction is apt. Please enjoy!**_


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